The Made Up Ones

I put my trust in real men,

and it filed for bankruptcy.

Every “not like other guys”

is just chapter one in the same tired trilogy.

He’ll brag about folding a T-shirt

like it’s a Nobel-worthy feat,

then ask me to applaud him

for remembering to eat.

But in fiction, he sees me once

and suddenly it’s fate—

in reality, he just forgets

the time, the place, the date.

So I’m done with sons and prodigal ones,

the only good men are made up ones.

Women wrote them better—can I get an amen?

I’ll take a paperback over flesh and bone again.

They pine for you in italics,

they listen in bold—

meanwhile the living versions

can’t even do what they’re told.

In novels they pine from chapter three,

In real life they whine when you ask for a key.

Prince Charming’s extinct, but his cousin’s online,

Texting “u up?” like it’s Shakespearean rhyme.

If effort’s a mountain, they’ll nap at the base,

But in fiction, he’d sprint just to study your face.

So I’m done with sons and prodigal ones,

the only good men are made up ones.

Women wrote them better—can I get an amen?

I’ll take a paperback over flesh and bone again.

So let me fall in love

for research purposes only.

I’ll marry the library,

call loneliness holy.

The only good men are fictional,

perfectly flawed, but intentional.

Women wrote them better—amen, amen—

and I’ll scream it louder every now and then:

If love’s just a story,

at least it’s one I can hold—

spine stitched in paper,

never growing cold.